Her fresh bitter coffee in hand
Haze lingering of the night she had
Her nights so restless & sad
Horrible at best; if you’d ask

Tired browns shining under her ½ mast lids
Remembering her grandfather as a kid,
“No rest for the wicked or the wise; that’s all a guise”
She knew that man to be so very wise

She sets down her hot mug
Lost in thought, she stirs it a lot
Sweet turns from the bitterness
As she ads more cream than not

Grabbing her pencil she wants to write
She wants to tell so many stories & plights
All she wants to do is write, write, write
Until her heart’s filled w/pure delight

Sadly her writing so feeble and fake
Nothing of emotions to make others quake
Mundane days and nights slip past
How is she suppose to write about that?